memories

A lone man stood in the booth of a bar, just lounging there sipping the long head down, with a cigarette in the ash tray, smoke curling in small tendrils up to his face. His face, rigidly handsome shone the quality of a man who held a secret, a secret so powerful and longing to be heard. With every puff of the cigarette, his nerves grew more anxious. He was to awaken a secret he had never bothered to tell, in the palpable fear that he’d be condemned.
    A man walked in just as he was rehearsing the introduction he so cherished. By way of greeting, the man beside him nodded his head to the oncoming guest. With this the newcomer quickly rushed in and took a bar stool next to his companion. Nonsense was exchanged, and a shot was passed his way, and with a smile he hadn’t truly felt the newcomer raised the small glass and drank the liquid down in one hurried drink. The bulky figure seated next to him shook his head in disapproval. Words were then exchanged again, something about a woman, or so he had casually put it, that unfaithful bitch.
    He thought about her for the third time that night…her beautiful hair that reached her back, a back so white and impeccable he couldn’t imagine laying his eyes on one any better, and that smile…that, he was sure he’d never see one any brighter, one that had the capability to make a girl that beautiful. It was troublesome to think of her now, it was sure to lead only to those god awful memories…not the ones he had cherished, not the ones he was currently participating in, oh never those…but the other memories. He cringed, as if wounded, and began a careful examination of the long neck he was holding in his calloused hands.  Before long, however, his concentration was quickly averted to the two men seated beside him and the conversation they were carrying on with an unmistakable air of temperament. They threw about words such as slut, whore, and most prominent of all, bitch.  He hadn’t seen the distinction between the two priors, but more so then his confusion, was the shock at how these two men could talk of a women in such disrespect. Why he’d never speak of her in such a way. He couldn’t, and the predetermined set values of men and how they should act prohibited such a thing, not as if he could have anyways. She was nothing but perfect in the eyes of him and the townspeople of Atlanta. This hadn’t meant she was without the liveliness, zest, charm that so many women had lacked. She was prominent in all of the above, yet her social status had seemed as pristine as it had when she was born. People had such a high respect for her, people adored her vitality and the kindness that hung around her so defiantly.
    This women these men were talking about, however, steered him from the values he was raised to follow, if–and he was sure she couldn’t be–she was as foul and they had perceived her to be, then he was sure this notorious character he had heard about in senseless drunken babble all night was no lady at all. Save for her appearance, but her values and morals she seemed to lack proved otherwise. The disrespect thrown her way was easily beginning to make sense now, and he hadn’t blamed the two men now, ridding themselves of steam was all they seemed to be doing. He knew how well a few drinks could ease the pain away.
    The night wore on, and almost accordingly the men got wasted and staggered out of the bar in a drunken state, much to the people’s horror and amazement, and in the wake of their strange exit of the bar, the memories overwhelmed him once more. His secret, so protected and cherished for its concealment was to be revealed soon. Perhaps bringing back the memories would grant him with the revelation he needed.
    As he thought this over a man walked in, alone like himself, and to his amazement he wasn’t greeted with a nod or words of recognition. This man hadn’t seemed in the mood to have wanted such, but he walked to the bar nevertheless and took the seat next to him, and when he noticed him, he smiled and nodded.
    “What’d the bitch do now?”
    He wasn’t aware this man was addressing his words to him in particular until he looked up and met the gaze of a handsome man, presently hardened with tragedy. This he hadn’t known, but it was as clear had he been forthright with it.
    “Pardon?” He said in perfect speech, though he had been drinking for quite some time.
    He pointed a thumb towards the empty long necks, piled around him in one taunting heap.
    “Oh…nothing,” he said, but his tone was unconvincing to both himself and his strange companion.
    “Yet,” he said, taking a gulp from his own beer.
    “So what ails you?” He suddenly found himself asking, and if his suspicions had any credibility whatsoever he knew this question wouldn’t be an easy one to be asked in his sudden state.
    Shocking enough, he answered the question he had been presented, though in his eyes he saw it pained him. “Me and the wife are having some difficulties,” though he hadn’t said the word, his eyes and overall expression showed he had wanted to attach the word again to his sentiment.
    “Oh,” he offered no advice, no sympathy, and no tale of similarities they could further discuss. His and Elle’s relations hadn’t stretched to that extent, and there problems had seemed nonexistent against others.
    “And you?”
    There was no other way to put it so he simply said: “memories.”
    The man smiled, but when he noticed the lack of humor in his companion’s face he turned his face in shame. “I know about those, the bitch they are.”
    And for as long as he could recall, they had been just that. Some were sweet, and some, though guilt induced, brought a smile to his face. However, happiness seldom came when the memories corrupted his mind. He wondered for a fleeting instant if this man had dealt with similar consequences due to his own reminiscing.
    “So…if you don’t my asking…what happened to you?” The man asked, and he, Harrison, inhaled a deep breath, and met the eyes of the man.
    The mission he had hoped to conquer was finally accessible. “We all make mistakes; can’t I say that without your disapproval? Sometimes those mistakes are only mistakes in the eyes of others, but to the one who participated…they’re not. Ever been in the predicament? Well here’s my story…,” so began his introduction. It wouldn’t be a daunting task in the least to tell his story; the memories were just as crisp as when they had formed.